


lighting yourself on fire

by sludgeraptor



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (its mercy), Gen, M/M, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7866895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/pseuds/sludgeraptor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reaper has always wanted Soldier: 76 dead.<br/>Until he actually succeeds, that is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lighting yourself on fire

**Author's Note:**

> if there are any formatting problems i am sorry im posting this from my phone  
> mercy is nb and using they/them in this bc i will die for my headcanons  
> edit: an additional special and late thanks to my friend thaifrisk on tumblr for pointing out a rather embarrassing typo to me. oops. love ya dude

    “Get up,” Reaper growls, kicking Soldier: 76. The blood from his numerous shotgun wounds is turning the asphalt a deep red, but the biotic field he had put down just a few moments before the last hit should have been keeping him stable.

    “I said, _get up._ Don’t pretend not to hear me, you sack of shit.” Reaper leans down, grabbing 76 roughly by the hair and using the other hand to rip off his dumbass mask. What does he think he is, some sort of antihero vigilante from the comic books? Reaper wants nothing more than to see the look in his eyes when he realises he’s been unmasked, that he’s exposed for the coward he’s always been.

    But there is no look in his eyes, except one of vague shock; he’s slackjawed, and his blue eyes focus on an indeterminate point in the distance; blood and spit dribble from his mouth, probably the product of the wet sounding coughing he’d been doing after Reaper had shot him the final time. Reaper doesn’t register it at first, what he’s done - all he’s thinking is _Christ, he looks tired. Do I look like that?_

    “Fuck,” Reaper eventually says, tightening his grip on Jack’s hair. “ _Fuck._ After all this fucking _time,_ you decide to die now? You’re dying _here_ ?” His voice cracks, like a fucking teenager. “You idiot. You fucking _idiot_ , you’re not supposed to do this. You were supposed to - to put up a _real_ fight _._ ” He’s shaking, fuck it, his hands are shaking and he drops Jack on the pavement of the abandoned watchpoint and he fucking paces back and forth _,_ he’s going to be sick and he can’t explain why, he _wanted_ this he’s always _wanted_ this ever since Jack stabbed him in the back, he had _known_ that position belonged to Gabriel - he wanted Jack to bleed and die like a dog - hadn’t he? - and now he’s wondering if what he really wanted was to bleed and die like a dog with Jack, for them to go out together - that had always been the plan, ever since they’d met, hadn’t it?

    He stops abruptly, pulls back his hood with trembling hands and unhooks his mask, lifting it off his face and trying to steady his breath. He sounds crackly, ill - despite himself, he thinks of Angela.

    Angela. Of course.

    They’d always been able to work what seemed like miracles, bringing patients who were on the brink of death, or even _dead_ , back. If anyone could save Jack, it was them. And since Jack had laid down a biotic field just before dying, maybe he would be preserved enough for Dr. Ziegler to bring him back to life.

    Armed with this scrap of hope, Reaper dons his mask once more and squats next to the body, lifting it up with a grunt. Jack is heavy, all muscle, dead weight. Reaper doesn’t know how far he’s going to have to go, the shit he’s going to have to pull. All he knows is he has to move fast.

***

    When Overwatch reformed, it was a laborious process. First, getting everyone together; secondly, finding a good place to set up base where they wouldn’t get caught; and finally, making sure the unaired grievances of the past didn’t tear their fledgling organisation apart like they had so long ago. That was the most difficult part, along with recruiting new members, like Aleksandra Zaryanova (whose strength made her an obvious choice) and Hana Song (whose quick wits and ties to the Korean government made her attractive). Mercy was in charge of most recruitment deals; they had a gentle aura, an air of forgiveness that the team desperately needed, even neophyte members.

    Mercy didn't mind spending their time searching for new members. With opposition from world leaders mounting as Overwatch’s visibility increased, they needed all the help they could get. So when Jack Morrison appeared dead just outside headquarters, Mercy was deathly afraid.

They knew who had done it. Of course they did. There was only one answer. Reyes had been killing former agents since he had ‘died’. His callous disregard for human life had served him well in the military and beyond, and he didn't care if the people he was killing were his old friends. In fact, he probably enjoyed it more.

This was an obvious threat. A sign they were next. Reaper knew they’d be the one to find the body. He had to. He’d placed it right outside where they slept. He’d put one of Jack’s biotic fields down under the corpse, like some sort of sick joke. A reminder that all the technology in the world wouldn't save them.

Mercy was on edge. Their hands shook when they did paperwork, they jumped when Fareeha tapped their shoulder to ask about schedules, they practically screamed when they heard McCree fire off a round for training while walking past the target range. They didn’t dare speak why to anyone - they didn’t want to scare anyone, didn’t want to upset anyone even more. Everyone believed Jack was dead - and now it was true. Why change perceptions when the perceptions were, technically, correct?

But they were scared. God, they were scared. Even though they made sure not to leave base, even when they had Torbjörn set up cameras and a single, hidden turret outside their room. It was too much - they _knew_ Gabe. They _knew_ he would show up.

And he did. It was silent, just like Mercy had known it would be. Mercy didn’t even wake up until there was a heavy hand on their shoulder, and before they even turn to see who it is, they know.

“Oh,” says Mercy, instead of any of the hundreds of things they had had planned; _I’ve been waiting. Are you going to kill me? Are you angry at me? Was any of it my fault, do you think? I was only 17, Gabriel. I was only 17._

He doesn’t say anything, and they can feel his eyes on them, the hand that isn’t on their shoulder holding his shotgun. It’s almost casual, the way he grips it, one finger resting lazily on the trigger. Mercy wonders if Jack saw this, too, before he died.

“Why are you here?” Mercy finally says, sitting up in bed, making his hand fall off their shoulder. “He’s dead. If I’m also not going to be dead soon, I don’t see any point.”

“He is?” Gabriel asks, but the way he does it, it’s less a question, more a resignation.

“Of course he is.” Mercy’s heart is jackhammering in their chest, threatening to break their ribcage, let all that guilt and nostalgia flow out. They feel hot - when did they start sweating? “You shot him. Of course you know he’s dead.”

“Of course,” Gabriel echoes, stepping back. “Of course I know.”

“Then why are you here? Are you going to kill me?”

“Stop asking. I won’t fucking kill you.”

“Why not? You’ve killed so many other people. Why not kill me?”

“I won’t.”

“Kill me.” Mercy’s voice cracks. Their vision is blurry with tears. Everything is so hot, so crushing. “Kill me, or you’re a coward.”

Gabriel stares at them. Or maybe through them. Or maybe not at them at all. Maybe his eyes are closed. He has put his hands together, holding the shotgun with such tender care, almost like a prayer. Mercy wishes he wouldn’t pray. Mercy wishes he would kill them or die. There is no inbetween.

“I guess I’m a coward, then.” His voice is raspy. Tired in a way Angela knows intimately. “Fuck, Angela-”  
    “Don’t call me that.” Mercy is surprised by the fury in their own voice. They wonder if they’re even the one speaking anymore.

“Fuck.” Gabriel repeats, adjusting his fingers so the claws clink against each other uselessly. “Fuck it.”

“Tell me why you’re here.”

“I thought he might live.”

“He’d been dead for hours upon arrival. You knew he was dead. Tell me the reason.”

“No. That was why.” Mercy swears there’s the slightest tremor in his grip. “You’ve done so many amazing things, Angela. You’ve brought so many people back from the brink.”

“Fuck you,” says Mercy. It is short, and brutish, and it feels strange to say, even to Gabriel - especially to Gabriel - but they say it because it’s all there is to say.

“I wanted him to live.”

“Fuck you,” Mercy repeats, and now the tears are falling hot and wet and streaky and they’re glad they can’t see themselves, or him, or anything. “Fuck you. He was my commander. Fuck you.”

“I regret everything, Angela.”

“Fuck you,” Mercy whispers, hand over mouth, shaking so badly. The world is a mess of blurry shapes and useless sensation. Mercy wants to not be here. Mercy wishes Gabriel wasn’t there. Mercy wishes Jack was.

“I’m sorry.”

“Fuck y-”

“Fuck me, I know. Don’t you think I feel the same way? Do you really - I mean, for fuck’s sakes, do you _really_ think I’d be here if I didn’t - didn’t believe, at least a little, that he might’ve lived?” The fatigue is there again. Gabriel is posturing himself as strong, but he’s beaten. Mercy can see it so clearly now, blinking the tears away.

“ _Scheiße._ The biotic field - you wanted to try to keep him alive.” The sinking weight of this realisation sticks in their stomach. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

Gabriel says nothing.

“Scheiße. You idiot.” Mercy can’t help but laugh. It’s bitter in their mouth. Like acid. “You moron. He was already dead. Aren’t you happy?”

“Funny,” Gabriel says, as he seems to sink into something less than human, melting into the shadows themselves. “I was asking myself the same thing.”

And just like that, Mercy is alone again.

***

    “You’re back.” Widowmaker says it with such little interest that Reaper almost wonders if she said it at all - it wouldn’t be unlike him to imagine conversation with the least engaged partner in the world. Her body is all edges now, sharp and unforgiving. Her eyes are always focused, never distracted with idle daydreams, and the only reason he decides she did speak is because they’re trained on him with an intensity he always loathes.

    He wonders if she remembers when she was soft, maternal. When her sharp features were rounded out by amity. When she would laugh and hold Gérard in her arms and tell Gabriel he really _did_ need to propose to Jack someday, everyone was waiting for it!

    But he knows it’s pointless to ask. She wouldn’t answer. Not in any satisfactory way, anyway.

    “Yeah.”

    “Where did you go?”

    “You don’t control me.”

    “Mon ami, it’s not about control. I am curious. Can a woman not be curious?” But her dagger eyes betray her. She’s asking for her Talon overlords.

    Reaper’s too, he guesses. But he’s always been a freelancer, always.

    “I went and visited Overwatch.” He plays it as casual as he can, sitting across from her at the meeting table she always seems to be at when she isn’t skulking around being freaky or in meetings with her bosses or on jobs. (Surprisingly, those three combined don’t take up as much time as one would think. It seemed like she was always here.)

    Her eyebrows raise just slightly, mouth quirks down a millimetre. She’s curious. Reaper has learned to read Widowmaker’s microexpressions in the months he’s worked with her - he knows she wants to know more.

    “For your boyfriend?” It’s a joke, but it’s delivered with the same deadpan apathy that she says everything in. Reaper shakes his head.

    “Just to see what our least favourite goody two shoes are up to.”

    “Kill anyone?” With that, she actually smiles. The thought of killing someone to Widowmaker is like the possibility of candy to a spoiled child - something deeply desired and often given.

    “None of your business.”

    “That’s a no, mon ami.” Her smile fades just a little. “Or you killed someone I wanted.”

    “You want everybody.”

    “And I will get what I want.” She grins. When she smiles with teeth, she’s inhuman. Out of nowhere, Reaper hates her.

    “Jesus.” Reaper stands up. “I’m done with the interrogation. Tell your bosses I’m not doing any of their shit for a while.”

    “They’ll suspend pay. And food. And other things of that nature.” Widowmaker doesn’t seem worried for him, or like she thinks these will change his mind - her flat delivery more implies that she’s revelling in the idea of Reaper being upset.

    “I have other places to stay. I’ll come back when I come back.”

    “What other places? You don’t look like an ordinary citizen, mon ami.” She gives him a once-over. Despite himself, Reaper feels self conscious.

    “Unlike you, I can take off the mask.” He doesn’t know if he can, though. He hasn’t killed anyone since Jack, and he refused to take Jack’s energy - a ridiculous mistake, in hindsight. He’s starving. He hates being this way - he hates the gnawing hunger, the endless nightmares, the constant aching that only gets worse the more he tries not to think about it.

    Widowmaker says nothing, now. She knows him like he knows her, and she knows he’s keeping things from her. And he knows she knows. It was like some sort of matryoshka doll of awareness.

    “Alright,” is all she says. She leans back in her chair. He can see her ribs through her suit. He wonders if she’s been eating. “Have fun.”

    Out of nowhere, Reaper pities her.

***

    “You’re back.” Mercy says it as coldly as they can, but they know they’re not going to scare him off. Gabriel cracks his neck, taps his fingers against his holsters. He grunts.

    “Is that supposed to be a response?” Mercy doesn’t look up from their paperwork. Can’t look up from their paperwork. God has forsaken them, they think, that Gabriel Reyes won’t get out of their hair, even after killing someone they’d looked up to and defended for years.

    “I’m not here to kill you,” Reaper grumbles.

    “I never said you were.”

    “I was just - letting you know.”

    “Right.”

    “So you wouldn’t be scared.”

    “I am not scared of you.” As Mercy says it, they realise it’s true. They know Gabriel is too tired to kill them, anyway.

    Another grunt.

    “Are you looking to absolve your guilt?” Mercy flips a page, signs a paper. “I have nothing for you.”

    “Maybe.” He taps some more. His metal claws make clinking noises that are far more annoying that intimidating. “You’d be the one to go to, right? You’re a doctor.”

    “I’m just as guilty as you are, Reyes.” They scribble a note, hum to themself. “I did this to you, after all.”

    “You think?”

    “I know you think that. I think that’s more important than what I think.”

    A third grunt.

    “What do you expect me to do? I don’t work miracles.” They put their pen down and massage their temples, sighing.

    “You could tell me what I can do to make the pain stop.”

    There’s that fatigue again.

    Mercy thinks on it. They lean forward, letting their nails dig into their skin. The stinging reminds them they are alive, they are here.

    Could Gabriel do the same?

    “If I were to do that, it would probably kill you. Your cells have been completely restructured - to put them back to normal would cause rapid aging, and almost definitely death - your corpse might even disintegrate.”

    He doesn’t make a sound, this time.

    “But,” Mercy continues, opening their eyes slowly. “it could help me work out the kinks with the caduceus staff and resurrection. You are a remarkable specimen.”

    “Please, say it in a creepier way, doc.”

    “My apologies.” They sigh. “It depends, really, on if you want to use your death to help the world, or if you want to die like….like the others did.”

    “Overwatch,” Gabriel whispers. Mercy’s eyes focus on the picture of them and Jack they keep on their desk. They know Gabriel’s do, too.

    “But I have a feeling I know your answer. So please, stop coming here.” Mercy leans back again, rests their hands on their lap. They are tired, too.

    Gabriel doesn’t reply. He fades away again.

    It’s so much easier to disappear than to make a difference.

***

    When Reaper returns to his hotel room, Widowmaker is there. She is sitting cross-legged on his bed, playing with her rifle. She doesn’t look up when he enters. Nor did he expect her to.

    “Look what the cat dragged in,” he drawls. He feels naked without his outfit, and they both know it, so he uses humour to try and cover his clear insecurity. His scarred face, sunken and somehow off, like a taxidermy, will betray him, though. Both of them know this, too.

    “You went and saw Ziegler,” Widowmaker accuses.

    “You can’t be authorised to be here.” He counters, sitting next to her. He feels heavy, so heavy.

    “I will get what I want,” she says, matter of fact, leaning back on her hands. “You intrigue me.”

    “That so?”

    “A man like you, with your abilities, you could’ve slaughtered everyone in Talon. Everyone in the world. Instead, you focus on people who you think have wronged you. It’s so pointless.”

    “You would kill everyone in the world, given the chance, I’m sure?”

    She smiles. It’s answer enough.

    “Do you remember Gérard?” Reaper asks, staring at the cracks in the wall. This hotel really was a shoddy piece of shit.

    She tenses and turns to him. “Why ask?”

    “Do you?”

    Widowmaker closes her eyes. “Putain. Yes.”

    “What do you remember?”

    The smile widens to show teeth. “Oh, he struggled so beautifully, mon ami.”

    “I mean before then.”

    “Before then? I don’t care. I was not alive before then.”

    “You aren’t alive now.”

    “And what of it? You’re not alive, either. We are tools, means to an end.”

    “And it doesn’t bother you at all?”

    “I don’t care.”

    He should’ve expected that answer.

    “I think I’m going to die soon.” He falls back onto the bed. It knocks the air out of him. When did he get so fragile?

    “You’re not exactly in a job with a long lifespan.” She lies down, too, on her side, head propped up with one hand. “Are you upset?”  
    “No. I don’t think that’s how I’ll die, anyway.”

    “Are you going to kill yourself?” She’s so disinterested that Reaper almost wants to say yes. Maybe that would get her to feel something.

    “No. I don’t know. Probably not. I don’t know if it would count as suicide, anyway.” Wow, okay, that wasn’t what he’d planned to say at all. That was actually the complete opposite. Shit.

    “Don’t do it.” Despite the content of the message, it’s delivered with a totally straight face. “You’ll never get to finish your mission if you do that.”

    “And for a second I thought you cared about me.” He laughs bitterly and pulls his hoodie over his eyes. “Fuck it. Shoulda known.”

    Widowmaker is silent for a while.

    “Do you want me to care about you?” She sounds genuinely curious.

    “I want you to care about _something._ I miss Amélie.”

    “That’s new.”

    “I think I’m changing, Widow. I don’t like it.”

    “Is that why you want to die?”

    “I don’t want to die.”  
    “You do,” she says, always so matter of fact. “It’s fine. I do too.”

    “That’s new,” he echoes.

    “No. I worded that wrong. I don’t want to die. _She_ wants to die.” Widowmaker spits out the pronoun with so much venom that it could only mean one person. The pity Reaper felt earlier is intensified tenfold.

    “Will you?”

    “Will you?”

    “I don’t know. It might be better. For everyone,” he sighs. He’s thinking about Jack bleeding out. He wonders if he could bleed like that anymore. “You didn’t answer.”

    “I’ll live until I’m not useful.” He hears her shift positions.

    “God, Amélie. I wish I was like you.” He presses his palms together. Then, to both their surprise, “I killed Jack.”

    “But you’re not happy.” Widowmaker reaches over and pulls his hood back to get a look at his face. He doesn’t stop her. “Why?”

    “I _wish_ people would stop fucking _asking_ that.”

    Widowmaker clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “I think you were happier with the idea of him dead than him actually being dead.” She cocks her head. “I think you still loved him.”

    Reaper laughs again, but this time he can’t stop. It won’t stop, doesn’t stop until he’s crying and his jaw hurts and everything hurts, his heart hurts, his head hurts, his stomach his liver his legs his arms his fingers and their nails and his teeth and his eyes, everything _hurts._ When the fit of giggles has subsided, Widowmaker is still staring at him. If one thing can be said about her, she’s patient. Even still, once he’s just gasping for breath and wiping tears from his eyes, feeling the shame sink in again, she pushes herself off the bed, slinging her rifle over her shoulder.

    “It’s time to make up an answer, mon ami.”

    She leaves him there, still wiping away the regret.

***

    “We have to stop meeting like this,” Mercy jokes when Gabriel appears in their lab, no longer in his ridiculous Reaper getup. Mercy is sick of him appearing, but in a way, it brings comfort; knowing one of her old commanders is still alive, or whatever he is, is some sort of strange assurance.

    “Angela.” He looks worse than they’d expected. He’s so pale, and his cheeks are sunken and littered with scars - burn marks? Mercy wished they’d done better than they had bringing him back. Maybe then, none of this would’ve happened. “I’ve made a decision.”

    “About?” Mercy’s heart is thumping again, like when he first appeared. There could only be two things he meant; either they would die, or he would.

    “I’d like to donate my body to science.” He tries to keep his voice light - he even smirks a little when he says it - but it’s obvious he’s pained. Mercy tries to remember their training for dealing with a terminal patient, but everything escapes them, or else comes back in German. Either way, they know it’d be of no use.

    “I’m glad,” is what they say instead. “I mean, I don’t want you to die. But I think this is good for everyone.”

    “You don’t?” Gabriel’s eyebrows shoot up. Mercy feels their face flush, and they redirect their gaze to the ground.

    “I don’t want anybody to die, Commander Reyes. I’ve never wanted anybody to die.” They curl and uncurl their fingers, observing the muscles. “But I know that one sacrifice can save millions.”

    “I’d be that good?”

    “It could be. It could do so much. Especially since the caduceus model hasn’t been able to be widespread because of the bugs. But if I could work out what went wrong with you and fix it - it could be distributed to every army in the world en masse. With the omnics returning - God only knows how many people might be saved.”

    Gabriel breathes in like he might speak, then lets it out. Mercy looks up to meet his eyes, still curling and uncurling their fingers.

    “If redemption is what you’re looking for, this could be it.” Mercy knows they’re overselling it because of their own desire, but they also know what Gabriel wants - everyone could be happy.

    “It won’t bring Jack back,” Gabriel spits, face changing from hopeful to bitter. Mercy swallows hard.

    “Nothing can bring Jack back.” Their vision blurs again. “Nothing ever will.”

    They pause to gather themselves, breathe in deeply. Gabriel is clenching his fists until his knuckles are white. Not that it’s hard anymore.

    “But I know what he would want. Not even - not even just who he became. The Jack who wanted you dead. Before then. I know Jack would give himself up, too, if he was you. He was good.”

    “I’m not.” He moves his hand to cover his mouth, gripping his face tight. “I never have been.”

    “Jack was. You were,” Mercy whispers. “You could be again.”

    Gabriel shifts his weight back and forth. When he speaks again, he sounds like he’s about to cry. “And you think he would want that?”

    Mercy steps forward, making Reaper flinch. They reach out and grab his free hand, holding it gently between their own. He’s waxy and cold, not unlike a corpse. Mercy wonders how different death will be for him anyway.

    “I _know_ Jack would want you back with us, Gabe.” Mercy grips him hard, as if he might disappear again. “I want you back with us.”

    “I’ll be dead. I’ll be fucking dead.” Gabriel’s voice is muffled by his hand. “I’m so _angry,_ Angela, I thought I was getting what I wanted - what now? Now I have to die to redeem myself? I was doing the right thing. I had to be doing the right thing!”

    “If you don’t die,” Mercy says, struggling to keep their voice even, “you’re going to have to keep killing people.”

    “Angela, I _can’t_ , I can’t do either, I’m not, not _good_ -”

    “You can be,” Mercy insists. “You can be.”

    They could see Gabriel wanted nothing more than to disappear again, to go back to before all of this. In all honesty, they felt the same.

    “Alright,” Gabriel breathes eventually, shaky. “When do we get started?”

***

    Even harder than revealing that Mercy had hidden all of it from the others was burying Jack and Gabriel.

    They were given gravestones just outside of Watchpoint: Gibraltar, next to each other. The tree they were buried under was old and spindly, riddled with hundreds of scars from target practice. Mercy had chosen it themself.

    No one had gone for an organised funeral. It had been unanimously and silently decided that respects for their fallen officers were better paid in solitude. Mercy sat in front of the graves, legs crossed. Soon they would have enough samples from Reaper’s body to be able to bury him properly. They regretted needing to do what they had done, and almost wished they’d just buried him whole, but they knew if they had, he would’ve come back to life just to personally kick them in the ass.

    They reflected on before, when Jack and Gabriel were inseparable. They reflected on after, when the rift was opening wider and wider between them and threatening to drag everyone down with it. They reflected on now, here, with their graves, next to each other; together again.

    Mercy turned their head to Jack’s gravestone, a simple marble affair. “You really broke him, you know.”

    Jack doesn’t reply.

    “I know you wanted it too. It wasn’t about that. He deserved it.”

    The wind blows their hair out of their face, and they sigh.

    “He forgave you, in the end. I’m pretty sure.”

    They look to Gabriel’s headstone, now. “And he forgave you.”

    The wind is biting, but Mercy doesn’t move. They are content to be here, cold, quiet, until it feels like the conversation is over.

    “Are you two happy, now? Have you sorted it all out? Is it easier to talk when you’re dead?” They wait for a few seconds, then scoff. “Evidently not.”

    Mercy rises to their feet, brushes off their nice black funeral dress. Something feels unfinished, but they can’t pinpoint what. They have already placed their flowers down on the graves, and said what they wanted to say. They are turning away when they remember.

    “Commander Morrison,” Mercy says, turning on their heels back to him. “I just wanted you to know. Even though I complained to Jesse about you being mean to us sometimes. And said I wished that Gabriel was my captain.” They breathe in sharply. “I didn’t mean it. You were like my father. And I missed you, when you went away.”

    He doesn’t say anything. Mercy feels naked, suddenly, and the wind is much more biting. Clicking their tongue against their teeth, they turn back around.

    “I’ll be back soon with more flowers. Try not to fight too much anymore, okay?”

    They are silent.

Mercy takes it as a yes. They are satisfied.

   


End file.
